John Creasey - Alibi

Roger took his arm away, and moved to the open doorway. He hadn’t seen her in such a mood for a long time, six months or more, and he kept reminding himself that this was the delayed action after hearing about Scoop’s decision. It might not be reasonable, but somehow he had to ride it, had to help her to recover.

“Well,” he said, “I won’t slave for them forever.”

He could almost see Benjamin Artemeus over her shoulder; and he did see the sudden change in her expression, the hopeful gleam in her eyes, the new intentness. It was as if she divined that he had some outstanding news for her. And now he had to decide whether to tell her about the Allsafe offer. Swift as light, thoughts flashed through his mind; and finally, decision.

In such a mood as this, he couldn’t possibly tell her; she wouldn’t rest until she had persuaded him to say “yes”, and he was a long, long way from feeling sure that he wanted to leave the Yard. He needed days, probably weeks, to study all the implications both of staying and leaving.

“What do you mean?” she demanded. “ Are you going to retire?” Her eyes blazed with new hope and she took him by the shoulders and talked as she would sometimes to the boys. “Roger! Promise me you’ll retire soon. Soon. If you want to make me happy again you’ll have to leave the Force, especially now that Martin is going off. I shall be on my own so much in the evenings. When Martin’s home it’s not too bad, even if he’s upstairs painting I can go up and have a chat with him if I’m at the end of my tether. But with him gone and Richard likely to get married at any time, I shall go mad here on my own in the evenings. Roger, you’ve got to retire. Do you hear? You’ve got to.”

And suddenly, her intensity being so great, she began to shake him. And she was still shaking him when the telephone bell rang and kept on ringing.

• • •

Roger had to answer the telephone.

Janet was shaking him so furiously, oblivious of everything, that he had to get away, had to have time to recover from the onslaught. The telephone went on ringing, and wrenching himself free, he said brusquely, I must answer that.” Going to the door of the passage, he saw Scoop standing by the telephone, and knew at once, by the set of his chin, the hurt but wary expression in his eyes, that his son had overheard at least the last things Janet had said. Gripping his son by the forearm, surprised, as always, at the boy’s muscular strength, Roger picked up the telephone at the same time.

“This is Superintendent West.”

“Hi, Handsome,” a man said. “This is Bobby Nixon.”

“Hallo, Bob,” Roger made himself say. Usually he could divorce himself from the home situation, no matter how tense, and apply himself to the problem coming from the Yard, but tonight it was much more difficult than usual. Nixon was a divisional superintendent who often acted as a stand-in for divisional men on leave, and Roger wasn’t sure whether he was stationed at the Yard or not at the moment. “Where are you?”

“Fulham.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve just been to see a girl friend of yours,” went on Nixon with heavy humour. “Maisie Dunster.”

“How is her language?” enquired Roger.

“Meteoric—or rather, a bit like the aurora borealis. She wants to see you.”

“Then perhaps she’d better wait.”

“I should come over,” advised Nixon. “I think she’s in a very chastened mood, as a matter of fact. She’s just had a visit from her lawyer, that Warrender girl.” Roger caught his breath at that piece of information. “I don’t know what happened, I wasn’t there myself, but the turnkey said that after about five minutes they had a flaming row. Rachel Warrender left her, and Maisie bellowed a few choice obscenities after her. Or do I mean blasphemies? I saw the Warrender girl out myself, and she looked like murder.”

Roger asked sharply, “When was this?”

Now, he was exclusively concerned only with work; the conflict with Janet had faded into the background; so had Scoop. He released the lad’s arm, pointed upstairs and then put a finger to his lips, wanting to tell Scoop not to let his mother know what he had overheard and then he concentrated absolutely on what Nixon said.

“Half an hour ago,” Nixon answered. “Maisie went on the rampage for a bit, threw everything she could lay her hands on about the cell, then she calmed down and asked to see me. So I went down, and she said she wanted to talk to the great West. I should certainly come if you possibly can, Handsome.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” Roger promised, and rang off.

He did not even begin to guess what had happened between Maisie Dunster and Rachel Warrender, but he knew Nixon was right; it was of the utmost importance that he went to see Maisie while she was in her present mood. And it could be a good thing, too—forcing a break from Janet, who would almost certainly become contrite and remorseful in a little while. But he had to decide how to guide Martin.

Martin whispered, “All right, Dad. I won’t let mum know that I heard.” He gave his father’s arm a squeeze, in turn, and then went back upstairs, remarkably agile for such a heavy youth.

Roger went back into the kitchen.

There, Janet was sitting in the armchair, one hand at her forehead; obviously crying. She looked up as he approached, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she said, huskily.

“Forget it, Jan.” Roger put his arm about her shoulders again, and squeezed. “I know what a strain it is. Forget it.”

“I—I hate myself.”

“Well, I don’t hate you,” Roger said mildly. “I hope that counts for something. Love, I have to go out, but I don’t expect to be long. Both the boys are home tonight. Shall I see if one of them can come down?”

“Oh, not yet!” Janet was alarmed, and began to run her fingers through her hair. “I don’t want them to see me like this. I’ve some ironing to do, and some sewing. I’ll be all right for an hour. Provided there’s someone in I’m always all right,” she added, forcing a smile. “You go on, dear.”

Roger kissed her damp cheek, and went out.

As he walked into the cool of the evening, he felt numbed. It was a little after half past nine, quite early, but already it had been a long day. What time had he started? About six o’clock, or rather earlier. And he had been running into different situations ever since, all of them unexpected and each needing much more concentration than he had yet been able to give it. As he got out of the car, he thought that in a way this last had been the worst situation, for it had crashed upon him at home, where he should reasonably expect and where he most certainly needed relaxation. There was a cold spear of apprehension within him. If Janet were going to react like this after Martin had gone, what would life be like? He, Roger, couldn’t take too many such scenes, and they had been going on periodically, for a long time.

Gradually, that gloomy apprehension faded and he began to think of Maisie.

It was part of his tactics, born of experience, to go over everything he knew about a suspect before an interview. Thought of Janet faded again, Maisie took her place in his mind, and he went through a series of mental pictures from the first time he had set eyes on her in the witness box, to the time when he had seen her in the cell. There was no need to go and check the reports and his notes, he was quite sure that he recollected everything she had said and done.

At last, he reached the police station. Nixon was waiting for him, tall, lean man with a nearly bald head and large, rather prominent eyes—a sharp contrast to Coppell’s, which were small and deepset.